Evidence

troublemaker and a deviant,” and urged demotion or worse.

The chief checked the solve-stats, most of the wienies ended up taking early retirement, Milo got the freedom to do his job with relative flexibility. As long as he produced.

I’d met the chief once before, when he’d invited me to his office, showed off his collection of psych texts, expounded on the finer points of cognitive behavior therapy, then made me an offer: full-time job heading the department’s department of behavioral sciences. Even with his promise to raise the pay scale by forty percent, the salary didn’t come close to what I earned working privately. Even if he’d tripled the money, it would never be an option. I know how to play well with others, but prefer my own rulebook.

During that meeting, he was dressed exactly as he was today: slim-cut black silk suit, aqua- blue spread-collar shirt, five-hundred-dollar red Stefano Ricci tie embedded with tiny crystals. On a lesser man it would’ve screamed Trying too hard. On him, all that polish emphasized the roughness of his complexion.

My terms.

He faced Milo and me across a booth at a steak house downtown on Seventh Street. A pair of massive plainclothes cops watched the front door; three more had staked out positions inside the restaurant. A velvet rope blocked other diners in this remote, dim section. The waiter assigned to us was attentive, vaguely frightened.

The chief’s lunch was a chicken breast sandwich, seven-grain bread, side salad, no dressing. He’d ordered a thirty-ounce T-bone, medium-rare, all the fixings, for Milo; a more moderate rib eye for me. The food arrived just as we did.

Milo said, “Good guess, sir.”

The chief’s smile was crooked. “In the gulag, we keep files on dissidents.”

His sandwich was divided into two triangles. He picked up a knife and bisected each half. Got five bites out of each quarter, chewing daintily and slowly. Sharp white teeth, somewhere between fox and wolf.

He wiped his lips with a starched linen napkin. “I bought you an insurance policy on Gemein, Sturgis. Know what I mean?”

“Captain Thomas.”

A gun-finger aimed across the table. “Lucky for you Maria was there when that crazy bitch cyanided, because, like all hot air, blame floats to the top. Extra-lucky for you, Maria was the one who didn’t want to strip-search. She’s smart and industrious but she does tend to overthink.”

Milo said, “Even without her directive, I wouldn’t have strip-searched, sir.”

“What’s that, Sturgis? Penance?”

“Telling it like it is, sir.”

“Why no strip?”

“At that point, my emphasis was on getting rapport with Gemein.”

“Plus,” said the chief, “even a super-sleuth like you couldn’t conceive the bitch would hide anything under her wig. Talk about an overblown sense of drama. Lucky for all of you, I managed to block the press-scum when they started up the trash-vacuum. They live to tear us down, Sturgis, because they’re useless pieces of crap. They’ve also got the attention spans of decorticate garden slugs. I recently devised what I think is a tasteful and adroit method of handling press cretins.”

Out of a jacket pocket came a sterling-silver card case, conspicuously monogrammed with his initials. A single, deft button-push sprang the lid. Inside were pale blue business cards. He removed one, passed it across the table.

Heavy-stock paper, elegant engraving. Three lines of type.

Your Opinion Has Been Duly Received

With Great Enthusiasm.

Fuck You, Very Much.

“Excellent, sir.”

“Let’s have that back, Sturgis. I’m still not sure if the wording’s right.”

The chief resumed eating. The side salad was half a head of ice-burg lettuce. Thin, pallid lips curled as his knife reduced it to coarse-cut coleslaw. Spearing a few green shreds, he masticated with relish, as if undressed greens were a sinful indulgence.

“In any event, Ms. Gemein’s ludicrous act of self-destruction appears to be receding from the public’s attention span, ergo, no need to throw anyone under the bus.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So tell me, Dr. Delaware, why’d the bitch snuff herself?”

“Hard to say.”

“If it was easy, I wouldn’t be asking you. Theorize like you’re getting paid for it, I won’t hold you to your answer.”

I said, “She may have been living with a serious underlying depression for a long time.”

“Poor little rich girl? From what I hear she wasn’t the sniffly, breast-beating sort.”

“Not a passive depression. She reacted like some men do, with hostility and isolation.”

“Men with borderline personality disorder?”

“That’s one possible diagnosis.”

“Depressed.” He put down his fork. “What kind of family has a suicide, doesn’t give a fuck? Not a squawk from Zurich. Which is good for us, these are uber-rich people, all we need is a lawsuit. I had D.C. Weinberg call them personally in Switzerland, do his Colin Powell bit-august authority plus diplomacy. The mother thanked him for letting her know, like he was informing her about the weather, then she handed the phone off to the old man who did the same damn thing. Polite, unemotional, no questions, send the body when we’re finished with it. What a bunch of coldhearted fucks, guess that could depress you. You think that’s why she didn’t have sex, Doctor? Shaved her damn hair off-that was a good phrase, by the way, Sturgis. Self-abasement. I’m going to work that into a speech one day. You’re saying this mess was all the result of not enough Prozac, Doctor?”

“I’m saying depression could’ve been her base state and she tried to give her life meaning by taking on a mission.”

“Burning down that ridiculous heap of wood to avenge her sister, that whole tribal thing whatchamacallit…”

Milo said, “Sutma.”

“Sounds like kama sutra,” said the chief. “Something out of a National Geographic special. Then again, we live in multicultural times, so far be it from me to disparage stupid primitive customs. Okay, she went on a mission, fucked up, offed herself out of shame. I’ll go with that. You see her for the turret murders?”

“Can’t say for sure, sir, but my gut says no.”

The chief ate more lettuce. “Anyone have a feel for whether Prince Teddy’s dead or alive?”

Milo said, “No, sir.”

“What’s your plan on the turret murders?”

“No plan yet, sir.”

“Then develop one and do it quickly. I’ve got a case I want you to deal with. Gang scum in Southwest Division sucking the federal tit-gang prevention grant. Which is like pedophiles getting paid to run a preschool. I’ve got reason to believe the money’s being used to buy heavy artillery.”

“Southwest Division needs my help?”

“I determine who needs what. You’ve got two weeks to close the turret murders before it goes in the fridge.” Manicured fingers lifted a quarter of sandwich. “Don’t like your steak?”

“It’s great, sir.”

“Then wolf it down the way you usually do. Couple of refreshing burps and you’re on your way to Van Nuys to check out that hangar.”